Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Book BLITZ - Pennies (Dollar, #1) by Pepper Winters

“At 18 I had pennies, but money
didn’t make me bold. At 19 I had dollars, but it didn’t dull the pain of being
sold. At 20 I had hundreds, but then I met him and was found. At 21 I had
thousands, but all I wanted was to be bound.”

“At 23 I had dollars, but life
changed and made me rich. At 25 I had hundreds, but it wasn’t enough to stop my
killing itch. At 27 I had thousands, but my reputation didn’t set me free. At
29 I had millions, but I met her and could finally see.”

Tasmin was killed on her 18th
birthday. She had everything planned out. A psychology degree, a mother who
pushed her to greatness, and a future anyone would die for. But then her
murderer saved her life, only to sell her into a totally different existence.

Elder went from penniless to
stinking rich with one twist of fate. His lifetime of crime and shadows of
thievery are behind him but no matter the power he now wields, it’s not enough.
He has an agenda to fulfill and he won’t stop until it’s complete.

But then they meet.

A beaten slave and a richly
dressed thief. Money is what guided their separate fates. Money is what brought
them together. And money is ultimately what destroys them.

Pennies (Dollars #1) is a DARK ROMANCE. This means there will be hard to
read scenes, graphic language, and sexual content (both implied and explicitly
written). Please do not read if falling in love with a man who dresses in
monster robes rather than knightly armour offends you. This is not a fairy-tale. This is a black abyss
that must be climbed blind before deserving the light. Along with literary
darkness, this is book one of a five book series. Each subsequent novel will be
released every few months (so your fingernails don’t tire holding onto the
cliff-hanger), and each is full-length. Please also remember not all answers
are given and not every character is as they seem. There are beasts adorned in
angel clothing and angels hiding in beast’s fur.

Remember that.

You have been warned.

Don’t say you weren’t told.

Read at your own peril.

Fall in love with Elder Prest at
your own risk.

Are you ready?

You sure?

You really, really sure?

Okay then…enter the world of
pennies and dollars.

—

DEAR DIARY,

No,
that didn’t sound right. Far too light-hearted for my tale.

Dear Universe,

Scratch
that. Too grandiose.

To The Person Reading
This.

Too
vague.

To The Person I Wish
Would Help Me.

That
would get me in trouble. And I refused to sound weak. Not if these words were
the only thing a stranger would remember me by.

To…

Tapping
the broken pencil against my temple, I did my best to focus. For weeks, I’d
been confined like a zoo animal being acclimatised to its new cage. I’d been
fed, washed, and given medical attention from my rough arrival. I had a bed
with sheets, a flushing toilet, and shampoo in the shower. I had the basics
that all human and nonhuman life required.

But
I wasn’t living.

I
was dying.

They
just couldn’t see it.

Wait…I know.

Inspiration
struck as I came up with the perfect name to address this sad letter to. The
title was the only right in this wrong, wrong new world.

To No One.

The
moment I pressed those three words onto my parchment, I couldn’t stop the memories
unfolding. My left hand shook as I kept the toilet tissue flat while my right flew,
slowly transcribing my past.

I WAS EIGHTEEN when I died.

I remember that day better than any other in my short life. And I know
you’re rolling your eyes, saying it only happened three weeks ago, but believe
me, I will never forget it. I know some people say certain events imprint on
their psyche forever, and up until now, I haven’t had anything stick in such a
way. You see, No One, I guess you could’ve called me a brat. Some might even say
I deserve this. No, that’s a lie. No one would wish this on their worst enemy.
But the fact remains, only you know I’m not dead. I’m alive and in this cell
about to be sold. I’ve been hurt, touched, violated in every sense but rape,
and stripped of everything I used to be.

But to my mother? I’m dead. I died. Who knows if she’ll ever truly find
out what happened to me.

The
scribbling of my pencil stopped. I sucked in a ragged breath, trembling hard as
I relived what I’d been through.

My
will to stay breathing had vanished. It’d taken them a while to break me, but
they had. And now that they’d achieved their goal, I was nothing more than
cargo waiting for the transaction to line their pockets.

For
days, all I’d had for entertainment were my chaotic thoughts, awful memories,
and overwhelming panic of what lay ahead. But that was before I found the
chewed up, snapped in half pencil beneath the bed.

The
find had been better than food or freedom; better because my traffickers minutely
controlled both those things. I had no power to sway the regimented arrival of
breakfast and dinner nor the ability to halt the fact I was being sold like
meat to the highest bidder.

I
had no control over being alone in a tiny room that had once been a hotel suite
before its premises were bought for more unsavoury stays. The towels were
threadbare with the sigil of some decade-ago establishment, and the carpet
swirled with golds and bronze, hinting the décor hadn’t been updated since the
seventies.

Was
that how long the pencil had lurked beneath my bed? Were the bite marks on the
wood given by a rowdy toddler waiting for its parents to stop fussing so they could
explore a new city? Or had a maid lost it while tucking starched white sheets
with military precision?

I’d
never know.

But
I liked to make up fantasies because I had nothing else to do. I spent my achingly
boring days going over every nook and cranny of my jail. They’d broken my
spirit, washed away my fight, but they couldn’t stop the determined urge inside
me. The instinct everyone had—or at least, I thought everyone had.

I’d
been alone for so long now I didn’t know what the other girls processed with me
would do. Did they lie star-spread on the bed and wait for their future? Did
they huddle in the corner and beg for their fathers to stop this nightmare? Or
did they accept, because it was easier to accept than to fight?

Me?
I ran my rubbed-raw fingertips over every wall, every crack, every painted and
locked window frame. I crawled on my hands and knees, searching for something
to help me. And by helping me, I didn’t know if I meant as a weapon to fight my
way out or something to end my struggle before it truly began.

It’d
taken me days to go over every square inch. But all I’d found was this
half-mangled pencil. A gift. A treasure. The nub was almost down to the wood,
and I wouldn’t have long before I had to find a way to sharpen my precious
possession, but I’d worry about that another day. Just like I’d become a master
at shoving aside my worries about everything else.

The
one thing I didn’t find was any paper. Not in the drawers of the weathered desk
or in the cupboard beneath the non-functioning television. The only apparatus I
could write on was toilet paper, and the pencil wasn’t too keen on that idea,
tearing the soft tissue rather than imprinting its silvery lines.

Nevertheless,
I was determined to leave some sort of note behind. Some piece of me that these
bastards hadn’t taken and never would.

Taking
another deep breath, I shoved aside my current conditions and clutched the pencil
harder. Glancing at the door to make sure I was alone, I spread out my square
of toilet tissue, making it tight and writable, and continued with my note.

I wish I could say a monster killed me. That a terrible accident caused
this. And I can say that…to a degree.

However, the real reason I’m dead and a new toy about to be sold is mainly
because of my upbringing.

That poise and confidence my mother drilled into me? It didn’t grant me
in good stead for a profitable career or handsome husband. It pissed people
off. I came across as stuck-up, a know-it-all, and vain.

It made me a target.

I don’t know if anyone will ever see this but you, No One, but if they
do, I hope they forget what I’m about to admit. I’m an only daughter to a single
parent. I love my mother. I do.

But if I ever survive what’s about to happen to me, and by some miracle,
I find freedom again, I’ll keep this next part to myself when I recount my time
in purgatory.

Pepper Winters is a NYT and USA
Today International Bestseller. She wears many roles. Some of them include
writer, reader, sometimes wife. She loves dark, taboo stories that twist with
your head. The more tortured the hero, the better, and she constantly thinks up
ways to break and fix her characters. Oh, and sex... her books have sex.

She loves to travel and has an
amazing, fabulous hubby who puts up with her love affair with her book
boyfriends. She's also honoured to wear the IndieReader Badge for being a Top
10 Indie Bestsellers, best BDSM series voted by the SmutClub, and recently
signed a two book deal with Grand Central. Her books are currently being
translated into numerous languages and will be in bookstores in the near
future.

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upcoming releases, please join Pepper's Newsletter (she promises never to spam
or annoy you.)